(this)

Why can't I write?  I wonder tonight while I run, cicadas threatening to drown my soundtrack, sunlight fading, running, not because I love to run, but because my sisters run and because I'll never be thin and because I love food and because running is supposed to negate everything I ate last weekend.

 

Why is pain seemingly easier to write about than happy days and good stuff?

 

I could write books on grief and loss and pain and loneliness but my husband took me to Jamaica for a week in November and I don't know how to write about that.  Is it because it's all too beautiful and fragile, these days, months, now years of joy creeping through?  We leave the kids with their grandparents and drive to O'Hare, pinching ourselves like two little kids, buying mismatched clearanced swimsuits because it's winter in Chicago and I hadn't thought about that; chocolate and granola bars and Nike sun visors at Target and carefully laying out our super crisp passports (we are green to world travel) and asking the hotel desk for a three am wake up call.

 

We fly to Montego Bay groggy and hungry and disoriented and squinting in the blinding sunlight and then a sweltering bus trip and free-flowing alcohol and winding streets and smells and the ragged beggars and haunting faces out of broken hut windows and I wonder why us, why here? We don't belong here, tourists, vacationing Americans, I don't deserve this, I could never have dreamed of this back when we had nothing but each other and nothing to our names but hard work and delivering papers and furniture and babysitting and stretching ends to meet each other. This is too good to be true. 

 

Cool tile and palms and pools and the ocean right there and hours on the sand with books;  at the pool bar we order everything under the sun sans alcohol and the salt cracks my lips; we eat jerk chicken on the beach with our fingers; fresh coconut milk, which tastes exactly like soap, cracked open with a knife right in front of us, and we drink it for the experience.  We promise to watch the sun rise and never do, exhausted and spent from our demanding life, we sleep in like kids on summer break.  Lying in bed one night watching TV, I hear Sara Bareilles' Brave on a HP commercial and wonder why I've never noticed it before:

 

Maybe there's a way out of the cage you live

Maybe one of these days you can let the light in

Show me how big your brave is

 

And it's easy to let the light in here, on an island, with chocolate croissants for breakfast and music late into the night, but sometimes it's scary to let the light in at home, back in my little hometown with so much responsibility and our uneasy truce on whether or not to move and my entrepreneur husband's goals that seem to take him further out of my life. 

 

I want to be brave and sometimes brave is being happy.  Sometimes brave is letting go of the grief.  Sometimes it's closing a chapter and moving on.

 

And maybe fear would have been saying no to this beautiful week, choosing to stay in the mundane, choosing to close the door to adventure and choosing to play it safe and secure and so much less extravagance.

 

We rent a sailboat and go out in the bay and then to the ocean and watch another boat capsize;  I'm terrified and lose a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket in the wind and Daniel laughs harder than I've heard in a long time. We can see clear to the bottom, light all the way down to the sand, but we can't find my lost twenty and it doesn't matter anyway because money can't buy happiness, only a little freedom, and money can't prevent heartache, only pay for the aftermath, and we know all of this from painful experience. 

 

I've held a $127 masculine wedding band in my hand and said I will and I do,

 

and I've held a tinny (and tiny) navy blue cell phone and begged my girlfriend Allison to come visit me in this town where I'm so lonely and know no one,

 

and I've held a pregnancy test with two lines through it far before I thought I was ready to be a mama.

 

I've held nothing, I've held loneliness, I've held invitations, tentative friendships, I've held shingles and helped my husband roof our first little house, I've held my first child and felt my heart burst wide open with love.

 

I've held toddler hands and preschool pencils and a little sister's wedding invitations and one morning my little son who wasn't alive anymore and then I held loss in my hands.

 

I held kleenex and my sobbing mouth and dirt on a grave and cold winter snow; held on too tight and let go of some things I shouldn't have and held my husband as he drifted away from me; in humiliation held the edge of a counselor's couch and in shame I've held letters written with my own hands, wishing I could have taken back bitter, angry words, hurting the broken man I loved. 

 

I held grief and years of darkness and then another tiny son and I held him and terror, too, watching him creep toward the one hundred twenty-eight day mark.

 

And I wrote, wrote, wrote about all of this.  What do you have in your hand? God asks.

 

This, God.

 

This sorrow.  That's all. 

 

Tears are healing and life can be wildly healing and our people breathed grace into our broken hearts and then one day my hands held hope.

 

I held another shocked grieving mother, crushed her to me and stroked her matted hair and rocked her on my shoulder and looked into her swollen eyes and met the grief and I held little black babies all the way in Africa who were alive, but without love, and I learned about this, too, a different kind of loss, and maybe my grief tunnel had gotten a bit narrow and maybe I wasn't the only one suffering.

 

I held soccer schedules and then school books and choir programs and so much work;  Jamaica and rest and joy and somehow the iCloud loses all of my photos but it happened and I hold it in my heart:   this, sun and salt and water and joy and ten years with someone who loves me all the way to my soul.

 

And then I held my coffee cup in a restaurant and watched my husband buy a business;  held a pen and signed under his name, too, in shaky handwriting, and I held packing tape and moved to a dream house, brick, and front porch and on the same street as my beloved library, held my breath and said goodbye to that little bedroom where my son had breathed his last, held a cloth and wept as I wiped off the chalkboard wall:

 

love will hold us together

make us a shelter to weather the storm

 

Somehow the storm seems weathered and I don't know how to document this, the joy.  I feel so undeserving.  I remember being the sleepless insomniac, reading grief blogs, resenting and almost hating the ones who were happy again.  How could they forget the pain?

 

But now I know you don't ever forget the pain; your heart just opens up wider to hold everything- loss, joy, pain, happiness again- and this, this is a gift.

 

Lewis writes, "Aim at Heaven and you will get earth thrown in; aim at earth and you will get neither."  Earth is thrown in  now for me, and peace and happiness are fragile, unexpected gifts.

 

 

What is that in your hand?

Exodus 4:2

 

 

This is in my hand, now, God - joy, and thankfulness and I will thank You and and let the light in again.

(maybe time doesn't heal but God does: four year birthdays)

Today is our little son Gabe's fourth birthday.

Last year I wrote about scars and said that time heals wounds.

Daniel and I talked about that late into the night of our littlest man's third birthday and he told me:

It's not true.

Time doesn't heal.

How can you say that?

It's not better, he's still gone, we still have this beautiful-sad-awkward day of January 12 to get through.

How can you say it's not as bitter?  It's bitter for me. . .

And I knew then that he was right and my ability to be strong was only as strong as my tenuous grip on my emotions.  I wept hard that night last year.

I told him I would take down what I had written, because it is so important to me to speak truth, even in the grieving process.

Always incredibly supportive of my writing, he said, no, I needed to leave it, because if that's what I felt, I should say it. 

But that little statement:

[time heals]

has been in the corner of my heart for a year now.

I've wrestled with the concept. 

Does time heal?

When I was writing, I was referring to scars; if properly cared for, wounds stop bleeding and scar over.  You still see the mark of the wound;  it's not the same, but also not torn and bloody anymore. 

And so, in the case of skin tissue, time can be a part of healing.

Whenever the eternal is involved, our human analogies can break down and fail to communicate. How do you communicate the terror and beauty of Heaven touching Earth in Death?  Terror at the power and horror of severing ties with here; the beauty is the knowledge that a human soul is eternal.

Maybe time doesn't heal.

Maybe only God can give the grace and strength to go on, to work and live and see another day and another. 

Maybe time is a vehicle in which healing rides?

the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round. . .

and the time vehicle brings us to number four.

HOW DO YOU CELEBRATE YOUR DEAD SON'S BIRTHDAY?

I'm sorry to be blunt, but it is just a ridiculously awkward conundrum. 

It's a happy day.

It's a horrible day.

Should we have a party?  Go to Chuck E Cheeses?

Should we pretend it's a normal day and skip all the questions, tears, drama, people, hugs, and just hide out somewhere?

Should we acknowledge him publicly?  I mean, do you say, hey, it's my little son's birthday.  He'd be four.  But he's not here. 

Do you invite your family and let your closest people share in your day?  After year four isn't that a little weird?  I mean, do you wanna be the people that just never moved on?  (Those pour souls.)

 These are the very real thoughts faced by people who lose anyone close to them.

I have learned from experience that physically you cannot skip grief.  It rears it's ugly head in other ways if you choose to ignore it, stuff it under the rug, block it out with laughter and pointless TV.  It shows up in insomnia, heart palpitations, excessive sleeping, depression, panic, nightmares, and all other sorts of junk. 

As hard as it is, it's better to take a deep breath and face the fear of crumbling, the fear of not making it through, the fear of what people will think and just swim through.  You feel like you're drowning, and it's awful, but if you face it, then you come out on the other side of whatever battle you just faced and there's perspective and a bit of healing and a tentative strength and a gratefulness to God for His grace. 

So even if we wouldn't acknowledge the day of our son's birth, we would be faced with remembering because of the oddest things that happen right before significant dates. This week Daniel dreamed that two little babies died . . . but he was able to resuscitate and they ended up all okay, living, breathing.  Also this week I overheard a whispered argument behind the couch:

Cambria:  "I wanna know."

JD:  "I'm telling you, don't ask."

C: "I'm asking."

JD:  "I wouldn't if I were you!"

I said:  "What's up, guys?"

Cambria:  "I want to know if anyone did CPR on Gabe."

JD: "I told you not to ask, Cambria, you shouldn't ask!"

Ahhhh, four years later, and there's still stuff like that that makes your heart stop for a moment.

I think of the sweet missionary lady in her eighties whose baby girl died when she rolled off her bed and suffocated while her missionary mama baked a birthday cake.  This woman poured her life out in South America for the cause of the Gospel, she's wise and strong and has a firm grasp of theology and she said: "I still can't eat cake."   So if birthday cake still makes her heart twist, maybe it's not super weird that my little family starts processing Gabe's death and life again around about January 12?




We woke up this morning, a Sunday, got ready for church, ate the customary yogurts, started the coffee, loaded the van.  Daniel is technically on duty today, but took off a couple hours in vacation time in order to be with us for the day.  He asks me on the way to church if I'm okay and I say yes and then I return the favor and he says yes. 

I have a tight grip on my emotions because I am about to see 150 people and I have chosen not to hide out at home, but I don't want to go in and cause a scene either.  I tell him I am okay, it's not so sad, but that mostly I just wonder what Gabe would look like.  Four isn't a baby anymore. . . I trail off and feel the tears coming and blink and try to regain control since our 2 mile drive to church doesn't lend itself to emotional dumping and kleenex - make-up repairing.

Sweet Mrs A. hugs me tight and I manage to hold it together for that and I tell her I'm okay.  She says in typical Mrs. A fashion: "Well, I'm not okay!" and just a tiny crack in my armor happens because this woman I respect so much gives me permission to not be okay.

I can't concentrate on the worship music because I keep thinking about that day, and Gabe's birth, and how crazy happy it was and then since music is inextricably wound through all the highs and lows of our lives, I think about the playlists we've created for the births of each of our children. 

The music choices are quite . . . eclectic because our music loves are wide and varied. If you're a kid of ours, you may be born to gentle flower child praise music or quite possibly, Lady Antebellum.

I sit.

I stand.

I pass the offering plate.

Jacob was born on Newsong's Cherish.

Cambria, Phillips Craig and Dean's Pour My Love On You.

And little Gabe. . . I smile thinking that we did have quite a range on his playlist:  Lady A, Switchfoot, the flower child praise group 2nd Chapter of Acts singing O For a Thousand Tongues and Holy Holy Holy. . .

And suddenly I realize that's what I'm hearing: Holy, Holy, Holy.  The offertory.  O dear, this isn't good.  There is no stopping the hot tears overflowing.  I'd get up and leave but it's so awkward.  We're supposed to be stronger that that by now and sitting towards the front everyone would see.  I try to stem the tide but it's just not happening:

. . .right back in that hospital room with soft lighting and his little cries and it's really a boy and my sisters. . .

tears run down the inside of my nose and I try to wipe them with the back of my hand but it's just no use. 

This is why people who are grieving are afraid to come to church sometimes.  You have no control over moments like that and it's embarrassing and frightening to be so utterly at the mercy of being blindsided by a memory that is going to make you want to ugly cry into your husband's shoulder.

I pinch the inside of my hand with my fingernails until all I can think about is how much my palm hurts and that's the most effective way to stem the tide. 

Daniel has meetings and he promises to get a ride home with someone else:  I flee the people who love us, support us, care so much, because. . . I just am going to be a mess.  Right.  I shouldn't run.  I know.  But I have just a very fragile grip on my social competence today and I flee with the children, home to fajitas and Cambria making cupcakes for our little Gabe.  I bought orange balloons the other day and Jacob and Eli blow them up in the living room.

The balloons weren't necessary though, since besides all the love people continue to shower on us through phone calls and hugs and texts and emails and messages, we received no less than three deliveries of 4 balloons for our little man's fourth.  I think the Hy-Vee people wanted in on the party by the end of the afternoon.  Our people- even when I flee and run- are the best support, the best heart caregivers, the most kindest bunch of friends EVER. 

We take him a cupcake, something we've done every year.  We take the #4 candle.  This is the first year it's stayed lit.  We take the balloons.  The kids throw snowballs.  I'm spent and cried out.  Eli loses his shoe in the snowbank.  Jacob's balloon gets stuck in a tree.  He's mad because all on his own, he spent a lot of time writing a note to Gabe and attaching it to the balloon: "Now no one will see it."  Cambria, on a huge gymnastics/AmericanGirl McKenna doll kick,  writes a note to Gabe on her balloon: I love u, Gabe, Love, McKenna (cambria) I Love You God To. Jacob frees his balloon by throwing snowballs at it. 

They rise, little orange pin dots into the January gray sky and we watch till we can't see anymore. 

I kiss my husband, out there in the snow and with gravestones all around, including our son's:  I love you, Daniel. 

And I do.

We made it through another birthday, and my whole soul exhales with relief. 

Tomorrow we start back to school, and our nights are booked and our lives are full.  We are planning a mission trip, pouring into local church life, teaching our kids, preparing our taxes, skiing with family, loving how sweet and purposeful and just plain fun life is right now. It's pinch yourself amazing most of the time. 

Today is a bitter, sweet, salty tear, breaking heart reminder to me of the pain that exists here on earth. 

I am grateful for the gift of my little son's life, and that he was born four years ago today.  I don't think I'll ever forget his birthday; and if time doesn't heal, I know that God is close to the broken hearted, and that's enough for me.

Happy birthday, my sweet sweet Gabriel James.

(when christmas is the hardest day)

I have all of these words in my head and heart that I want to spill out - 

no time to write, so here I am on the floor next to Eli in the guest room at my in-laws; forgot my laptop, so I'm plinking on my phone- 

family downstairs 

happiness

everyone together 

no, not everyone

And my heart remembers that first Christmas without our little son. 

There wasn't one easy part. 

It was awful. 

All of it.

Looking back, we just endured, plodded, anguished through the days. 

busy sidewalks, city sidewalks dressed in holiday cheer . . . in the air there's the feeling of christmas. . .

The snow was hard for me to cope with because it covered his grave and I couldn't even grasp that he was under the grass, out in the cold. 

That year I would weep, great retching sobs next to his tiny metal marker in the snow. 

i'm dreaming of a white christmas. . .

That first year some unknown angel shoveled a path to his grave every time it snowed. (even december 25th) 

That first year someone hung little blue ornaments on the little tree next to his resting place. 

have yourself a merry little christmas. . . let your heart be light. . .

That first year I sat and stared at the annual pile of Christmas cards trying to figure out how to not sign his name. 

. . .from now on your troubles will be out of sight. . . 

That first year we filled a stocking for Gabe, too. . . my daniel went to farm and fleet and bought our littlest man Christmas presents: a fire truck, lil red mittens and some hand warmers. 

It's the most wonderful time of the year. . . 

The happy music seemed to mock my sorrow and the joy of Christmas everywhere drove a sharp knife deeper. 

Mostly we cried a lot and clung desperately to our (patient) friends and family. 

This year is our fourth Christmas without little Gabriel James. I know he's missing - we both do. But there isn't the same utter hopelessness and anguish. 

I'll never forget though, as long as I live, that first Christmas and so I write to tell you, dear one - 

you with the tears 

and you with the broken dreams,

you with the empty spaces, 

you with ache no one knows,

you with the crushing load of loss and pain 

my heart cries for you. 

I'm blinking my own tears, wishing I could take away yours- wishing, wishing that your Christmas wasn't painful and that you didn't have to walk this road. 

Wishing you didn't have to cry your silent tears into your balled up fist in public restrooms;

Wishing you didn't have to be brave when gifts are passed out and there should be one more name; 

Wishing you didn't have to know about cemeteries at Christmastime or that you didn't have to wonder if your baby is cold. 

I can't take it away.

And it doesn't help much while you're drowning in grief to hear me say - you can make it, dear one - fight - hang on- don't give up - God will bring joy back to you- (though I've found all this true). 

So while you grieve and while you ache let me just say: 

You aren't alone. 

You haven't lost your mind- it is hard.

You are loved by a God Who will never let you go. 

The next time you hear garish music and tis the season to be jolly - take a deep breath and know this:

The world has no answers for pain. 

Without Christ, there is no hope. Masking pain is the best the world can do, thus the materialistic barrage of the holidays. 

When your pain is too great to mask and the scars and wounds are too gaping there is only One Answer and He is a refuge to the weary and broken. 

He is there.

He is real. 

He is God become Man.

He is the shining light of the darkest Christmas because He came to our darkness. 

And that miserable first year the music that brought the most comfort was the truth of Christmas, not the fluff. 

And ye, beneath life's crushing load

Whose forms are bending low

Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow - 

Look now! for glad and golden hours 

Come swiftly on the wing;

O rest beside the weary road

And hear the angels sing. 

He came to bear a cross. 

For me and for you. 

Cling to the truth of His Word and hold onto hope - 

He came to bring life, to rescue you from all this pain. 

We can all rejoice about that gift. 

(the vision weekend)

These are things I heard my husband say this summer:

I want to go see Mark in Haiti this winter.  (best man in our wedding, Mark and Daniel have been friends for. . .ever)

Hey there's a FEMA class I wanna take.  It's like a week long.  (was it in Arizona? Louisiana? don't remember- it wasn't close, that's for sure.)

I think we should go see Jake and Loren, that would be really fun. (Hello, New Jersey)

Since this is our ten year, we oughtta book a week on a deserted island. (um, sign me up!)

among other items.

Daniel consistently logs 90+ hour work weeks and adding travel to that schedule just sounded insane to me.  I could feel my little security/pressure gauge rising as I logged in my head the logistics of these super great travel ideas that would leave me a) alone or b) snowed under in packing and unpacking alone.

I suggested said that we needed to sit down with a calendar and log this out so that all of these trips didn't end up back to back with all of us going crazy. 

Out of very short sighted and selfish reasons, one of our greatest lightbulb moments as a couple happened:

the vision weekend.

We were already planning to go away for a Thursday/Friday night in August to see Tim Hawkins with my fam so we just tacked on an extra night to our hotel stay intending to do some planning and scheduling together.

As we went through small group studies this summer we were challenged to strengthen our family and purposefully use and enjoy the gifts God has given us. We were given a lot to think about and bring to the planning table: beyond the calendar, what does God want us to do? 

Over dessert in our living room with Adam and Nicole one night, we shared our plan of going away to plan.

"That's cool," Adam said.  "Someone told me once that you shouldn't plan your next year, rather write down how you want the end of your life to look and then plan backwards from there. . . like, if I want  ____________ to be in place when I'm 90, what do I need to be doing at age 50, age 40, age 30 to make ____________ happen?"

We looked at each other; I saw the little glint in my uber-organized husband's eyes and I knew that we would be writing out end of life plans on our trip.

As our church has gone through a lot of change this summer, the leadership has been using a Strengths/Weaknesses/Opportunities/Threats (SWOT) model for charting out things we need to improve and work on.  Each member has had a chance to contribute to this list.  It's been an incredibly positive and energizing formula and we decided to let our kids do it for our family.

About a week before we went on the vision weekend I sat down with the kids and gave them a chance to voice our own strengths and weaknesses.  They talked, I wrote.  It was good.  It was enlightening.  I wrote as fast as I could and filed the results to talk about with Daniel.



Our long awaited calender --> vision --> priority evaluation weekend arrived and we started off early and motivated, not deterred by our first Hotwire bomb hotel choice (let's just say it was heavy on the maroon carpet)

We found this awesome little corner, maroon carpet aside, to spread our stuff out.

We started with these questions:

What motivates people?

What motivates us?

What are our dreams?

We wrote and dreamed and planned for hours.  It was good. We looked at our children's concerns (we don't want to see you argue) and what they loved (family mealtimes). We looked at our own dreams.  It was exhilarating to find how much God has taught us and how closely our dreams are aligned. 

I think in marriage, men and women fear sitting down and actually talking about their dreams because they might find out that he wants to go to the moon and she wants to never ever move.  You know, if we talk about our dreams, they might drive us apart. 

But not talking about them isn't the answer either:  the underlying tension of not being united causes a different set of problems. 

At the end of the trip we had scribbled through many legal pad pages, prayed together and separately, sought God's leading and His desires, listened to music that was currently impacting each of us, written desires for when we're old and gray, roughly planned out goals for our family over the next 5-10 years and written a family mission statement.

Really writing a mission statement was probably the most fun and we both felt dumb for not doing it sooner.  We had one for our business before it ever really started.  Churches have them. Anyone wanting to succeed at what they are doing has to filter a lot through the sieve of does this fit in the grand scheme of what we're about?

And what do families have?

Well. . . we have marriage vows.  Those are good.

And then you have a positive pregnancy test and all of a sudden you are hurled headlong into the tyranny of the urgent.

Never, never, do we want to view bending to tie little shoes and reading I am a Bunny as unimportant.  But without vision, sometimes you wonder if tying shoes is important.  Without any plan for our children or where we are going as a family it is far too easy to for us to be victims of our self-induced busy-town, to quote Richard Scarry. 

Writing a mission statement for our family has been so freeing.  It helps us understand what to say yes to and what to kick off the to-do list.  It helps us understand what we're about.

Planning for us is held very loosely.  We are well aware that all can be wiped away in a moment; we also understand peace and prosperity are poor teachers.  Planning what we will do next year? That's a concept we can only embrace because of great healing and believing that the heart of God is kind.  Our dreams and plans are not about control or telling God what we're going to do for Him, rather not wanting to waste the life He's given and prioritizing well.

And at the end of all those plans, we say, ultimately, God, these are all Yours. You can change anything You want.

And at the end of the weekend, we realized that while we never got to the calendar, we had accomplished something much more important:  we came away with unity, with dreams, with hope for our marriage and family, with great excitement about what God is doing and so much joy in joining Him.  Way better than charting dates and times.

We'll get to the calendar eventually.  :)


typical of us, whenever we find something that works, we're so excited and want everyone to be able to share the experience. the vision weekend is no exception.  here are some starter ideas. . . at the very least, good questions to ask people you love.

Quiet, Peace, No Distractions: This doesn't have to mean going out of town and getting a hotel, but that's what worked for us.  It's the only way to peel our noses off the grindstone. ;)

What are we learning about right now?

Who is impacting us?

What is the opportunity right in front of you?

Based on current performance would you trust you with this opportunity?

Am I preparing for the next opportunity?

Am I ignoring an opportunity because the income does not match the work load?

If you could do anything for God, what would it be?

How do you envision the end of your life?

What motivates you?

What drains you?

What do I/you love doing?

*Listen to great music. Great music is always a subjective term but here are the songs impacting our vision weekend: Believer (AudioA) + Jesus, Move (Big Daddy Weave)


Sample from our papers:

Family Mission Statement 2013/2014

we’re not afraid, we’re believers

Jesus, we’re alive to glorify Your name

 

We desire to raise a family producing effective children who will make others’ lives better through Christ; strong enough as a family to be able to open our doors and step out into the world that is broken.  We want our family to be a safe place where each one is loved unconditionally, where we meet and satisfy one another’s deep relationship needs. We want others to feel welcome, safe and loved in our home and family.

Go write your own story!

letter to a grieving mom

Was it uploading files of photos to Shutterfly and running across 25 pictures of Gabe's pacifier that made me think of how far God has brought us?

Was it seeing other people just beginning the grief road?

I don't know why, but I've had these thoughts whirling around in my head these days, things I would have told the grieving, shattered young woman that was me. 



Dear Mamma-of-a-child-in-Heaven,

It is so hard.

I know.

It does hurt to breathe.

Your arms do physically ache.  It's not your imagination.  You're not going crazy.

Your heart does do weird stuff.  Grief affects us physically.  It's normal.

It's not normal.

It hurts so bad.

You are seeing people that reach out to you, people that have lost children, and they seem okay.  That is freaky scary.  How are they okay?  That intimidates you.  Don't let it.  Grasp the reaching hand they are stretching.  They aren't okay, they just want you to know there is hope. 

You can't sleep.  It's okay.  It's normal.  Your mind runs a movie reel of your child's death endlessly and you can't block it.  That's normal too.  Your mind needs to convince your heart that your baby isn't there anymore.  It's a process.  You can't rush it.  The movie reel won't always keep running, out of your control. 

That little boy wearing the same shirt as your son's-  take a deep breath.  This will not always be the sharp knife that it is now.  His mamma doesn't hate you.  It's not her fault.  If his mamma knew that was your son's outfit too, she never would have made you endure that.  It won't always be so wrenching.  Grief will tell your mind crazy things.  Don't let it lie to you about people.

The family reunion photos that seem like a prison sentence. . . I know, it's not a real family photo.  I know, you're thinking about the glaring omission and a cold little grave and everyone else is smiling.  Don't hate them for smiling.  I know.  I understand.  Take a deep breath.  It's okay not to smile.  It won't always be so brutal. 

Your first phone call hearing someone died, visiting a funeral home again - I know, you feel like you're panicking and going to vomit and you can't do it.  Cry out to Jesus.  Hug those sad people hard.  Get some more Kleenex.  Let the tears flow.  It's healing. 


Your kids talk about death, or play that they die, or their dolls die-  that is normal.  They cry.  It's normal.  They don't cry.  That's okay too.  Children are resilient.  Love them.  Give them hugs.  They hurt to see you sad too.  They will be okay.  The grief road for your kids is much shorter than it is for you.  Be thankful for that. 


Find the safe people.  You might not feel strong enough to look, but they are there. Find them.  You can pour it out to them.    In almost every situation and at almost every social event, there's someone who understands pain. . . you might find that safe place when everyone is laughing and you see a face, a heart, that isn't.  Don't expect everyone to be safe.  It's too much to ask of the entire world.

There are no ways to soften first birthdays, first holidays, death anniversaries.  It's just going to be sad.  I'm so sorry.  I wish you didn't have to go through it. 

You do things to cope.  You take pictures of keepsakes.  You carry little mementos in your purse.  You hope no one notices and then pray that they will.  Maybe then someone will ask how you're doing, let you cry on their shoulder, tell you that they love you and that they know you loved him.  You will always feel the need to commemorate and acknowledge but the ways of doing it will change.  And that's good.  

You won't get over it.  You will learn how to live with it.  You don't get over part of your heart being gone.  That's just your painful reality.  But you will laugh, you will smile, you will live again.  You can. 

What do I wish I could tell you, you with the dark circles under your eyes and the light on late into the night?  I want you to know that God will carry you if you let Him.  He will carry your pain.  He is so near to the broken hearted.  When He seems far away- and He seems light years away sometimes- cry out to Him.  He is there. 

There are things that happen, words that hurt deeply, that people say and do inadvertently now.  You will cringe and ache.  They don't mean to hurt you.  You will see this in a few years, but it will take years.  Be gentle with them and gentle with yourself, too.  It's okay to back up a little from painful situations, but don't think people mean to hurt you.  They don't.  Believe me. You'll see someday.

Oh dear one, weighed down with the heavy load of grief, know that someday the load will be lighter, and God will give you the incredible gift of helping someone else carry their own burden.  You don't know now, but healing will come from weeping with those who weep. 

One day you will wake up and realize. . .

we have this treasure in jars of clay

 to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us

we are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed;

perplexed, but not in despair; 

persecuted, but not abandoned;

struck down, but not destroyed

. . .therefore we do not lose heart

{from II Corinthians 4}

 

don't lose heart

 

Love,

 

hayley

when no one notices

This dish.

Beautiful china, tiny roses.  Wrapped in press n' seal, placed in our freezer with a meal, three years ago when the bottom dropped out of our world. 

I looked for a note, a marking, some clue to the whereabouts of the owner and the person who had taken time to prepare, braved the unknown to deliver their kindness. 

Nothing.

I asked around, kept my ears open, checked off all of the people I thought it might belong to, and after two years of no one claiming the dish, I started using it.

Every time I lay bread slices on it, muffins, strawberries, I think of the unnamed person who blessed us and never was thanked.

I think of the kindness that no one noticed, the offering that went to the seemingly ungrateful, the good deed that never got a thank you card.

I think of the frustration that I feel bubble when I offer good deeds to the thankless;  it's . . . well, thankless.

But a thankless task, an unnoticed offering, a kindness unrequited: it's a little hollow, maybe, but oh so important. Thankless does not equate unnecessary.



Today in the middle of teaching third grade and kindergarten and managing trying to love a toddler through a green playdoh snake mess,  I think: this job doesn't pay enough and I want the thank you, the pat on the back, the hey you did great today, the you matter and you're important. Never mind the sweet nothings, how about a paycheck to compensate the stress?  That could work too. 

I picked up my coffee mug to get some liquid encouragement and squinted down at 5 little green playdoh balls, floating in my Dunkin' Donuts blend.  Flavor of the day. I blink tears. 

No one notices. 

Or does someone notice?

Or does that even matter? 

why am I here?  why do I show the kindness?  what are my motives?


[so when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full] Matthew 6:2

But. . . I like trumpets. . . maybe trumpets would help. . . maybe we need to queue up some Henry Purcell for the weekdays.

Actually I'm all about trumpets.  But if I'm living for the trumpets, Jesus points out so clearly, then I'm living for the trumpets.  And that's the reward.  To be honored by others?  That's why I'm loving my kids?  That's why I show kindness?

Well, that's humbling to throw out there.

[So let’s not allow ourselves to get fatigued doing good. At the right time we will harvest a good crop if we don’t give up, or quit.] Galations 6:9

Maybe the right time doesn't mean that Eli will thank me for reading I am a Bunny 42 times this week.

Maybe the right time . . . to be thanked. . . is not going to be here.

Am I okay with that?

Am I okay with pouring my life out and never being noticed, the thank you note left unwritten?

Yes, I am, right now, with my feet kicked on the coffee table, my children in bed, my own playlist through the speakers, but the rubber doesn't meet the road while I'm writing in my calm 10pm living room. 

The rubber meets the road when people put playdoh in my coffee and my kindergartener's eyes glaze over and she shrugs:

I dunno, 1 + 2?  Um. . . 56?

I have perspective when I can back away.

But when I'm in the thick of it, life closes in and I struggle and I just want a lil thank you note, y'know?

And I'm full circle, back to the dish in my cupboard, back to the feeling of being overwhelmed by a stranger's kindness, back to the carried part of my life where I didn't take a single step alone.

Back to the dish that didn't seem to matter. 

But it did matter.



To you, the unnoticed:

You matter.

Thank you.

Thank you for being kind, for being faithful, for caring, for doing good when no one notices, for loving without the fanfare.

Thank you for loving when those you love don't love you back.

Thank you for demonstrating faithfulness.



More thoughts on being overwhelmed:

A Life Plan When You're Overwhelmed: Sanity Manifesto

ten reasons i am leaving my children for two weeks: here we come south africa

Daniel and I leave in four weeks to go to South Africa with a team of eight people from our church, serving the least of these at the Restoring Hope Village.

Three million + orphans in SA.  That is a staggering number.  Our tiny offering of time and love to give is a drop in an endless sea of need, but we want to start there, giving our little bit. 

This has been a matter of prayer and in the works for some time and we are so excited to go and follow God's leading. 

The trip was overwhelmingly and promptly funded, confirming that money is rarely an issue if God calls you to do something.  We're so thankful for the people who gave so freely. {you know who you are}

Below are my notes from sharing with our church family the reasons we each chose to go. 



I love top ten lists; some of you know that Daniel even used a top ten list to ask me to marry him.  There are so many reasons I want to go to South Africa, but I decided to put them in my favorite top ten format. 

So here they are.

1.  Thankful for the hope of eternal life that my salvation brings; wanting to share hope, knowing that only Christ brings hope for the pain life brings.  I accepted Christ as a child and knew the talk, walked the walk, but our son's death changed everything I believed into something more real.  You can't just be here, then gone, and that's the end, with just this little shell left of you.  There has to be something more.  There has to be eternity;  because if not, where does your soul go,  the part of you that's you?  Everything I believed about God became startling and clear and real to me.  Eternity = hope.  I want to share that.

2.  I know what hopelessness feels like.  It's crushing, it's demotivating, it's dark, dark, dark.

3.  I know what it means to be given the gift of hope.  That gift- that so many of you have given to us. . . is priceless.

4.  I want to honor and follow my husband's leadership. It can be a little scary to be married to a man who walks with God.  You kinda never know what he's going to do.  Daniel told me over a year ago that he was going to go on a mission trip, and I was like. .  . oooookaaaay!  When Louis and Amber came, during their presentation, Daniel leaned over to me and said, this is it, I'm going there!  I was really happy for him but then I started thinking. . . what if God tells him something big while he's there, like adopt or move to Africa. . .   maybe I should go so that I could know what my future might look like!  But I also want to go just to share in this experience with him, rather than haave him explain it to me when we get home.

5.  I want to say yes to God.  I'm blessed by so many people in our church who say yes to God and lead by example, and I want to be that.  I just don't want to start saying no to Him:  I want to say yes.

6.  I want to listen to wise counsel.  When we first started talking about me going too, we sought counsel from people that we were sure would advise me to stay home with our children.  Our parents floored us by enthusiastically supporting the idea and tripping over themselves to watch the kids during our absence; no, don't go wasn't what we heard.  I then went to my beautiful Mrs. A. . .sure that she would tell me to stay home and take care of my children.  Instead she pointed out that they would be fine, following God was more important than following safety, marriage priority > children priority and she also made me aware of point # 7.

7.  I want to teach three little white kids that the world is bigger than smalltown, USA.  And they are so excited and supportive of us going.  They want to go.  I hope they will eventually.  We aren't fans of children running family direction, but we wouldn't go if they weren't okay with it.  They're okay.  They care about these little people without any mom or dad.

8.  Because there's no substitute for human touch and compassion; $$ can't hug.  Just that.

9.  Seeking a wider perspective of the work God is doing globally. We don't have the corner on ministry here.  I know that zooming out can bring clarity to our vision and I'm so excited to see what God is doing in another part of the world.

10.  Because the world will know we are Christians by our love for one another.  And I think that extends to loving the least of these.

And then there's the many who are called to be faithful at home;  Africa isn't in your future, but lots and lots of endless laundry and Sunday School teaching and feeding hungry neighbor kids and being there when people need you and sharing hope with your coworkers and employees and the list goes on and on. . .

You are important, you are needed, we are not all that and a bag of chips because we're going a little farther than across the street. 

My sister writes about staying home when others go.  Read it, she's awesome.  That's her quote below.

This is my life, Lord,
Help me not to wish it away,
Waste it away
Or, not taste the joy of the people around me.
Lord, help me to be a joyful giver of Me.

eli = joyful destruction

Sweet boy.

 

You love to sharpen pens in the electric pencil sharpener.

 

You like to pull my earrings out.

 

You love to climb, climb all the way on top of desks.  And game cupboards.  And dressers.

 

You like to open programs that cause serious problems for computers, all with a few pecks of your chubby fingers.

 

You like to open doors, bathroom doors. Nothing is safe from your inquisitive toddler self.

 

You love to unroll toilet paper with astonishing speed and grace.

 

You like to say oh, mannn. . . just like your daddy.

 

You love boots that are too big for you, enthusiastic clomping, joyful destruction, that's you, my son.

 

Oh such joy you bring.  Such a weary happiness.

 

I love your kisses, blown with sticky fingers.

 

I love hearing your feet trot across the floor.

 

I love hearing you say mamamama.

 

I love your whole little self.

 

 

 

You empty me out and fill me up at the very same time and I am so grateful to God for you, my son.

three year birthdays & what scars represent

 

Today our littlest man would be three.

 

It's such a sweet thought. . . not as bitter as the last two years.

 

Healing is slow.

 

Much like  deep wounds, at first the grief bleeds, throbs, you don't have a life outside the all-consuming pain.

 

Then there's a break in the pain, there's check ups, flare-ups, maybe infection, or tearing open and sutures needed again.

 

But if cared for, a wound heals. 

 

One day, all that's left is scarring, marking what once consumed, tore, ached, changed the landscape. 

 

Are scars beautiful?

 

I don't know, maybe they are.

 

The scar on my soul left from losing my son, my precious little Gabe, who should be in the throes of potty-training and first real sledding trips - that scar represents so much to me.

 

It does have a strange kind of beauty.

 

That scar has taught me that life is precious.

 

That scar has taught me that the role people play in caring for the hurting is monumental.

 

It's taught me sometimes tragedy is just plain out of our control.

 

(I should have known that, you say.  I know, I should have.  But I didn't.)

 

I learned that God is truly near to the broken-hearted.

 

I learned that sometimes strong people don't want to live anymore, and sometimes weakness looks strong on the outside.

 

I learned that underneath our happy small talk, every single person struggles with something.

 

 

And healing. . . it does come.

 

 

Time heals.

 

 

It's true, it does. 

 

 

I heard someone say the other day that you don't realize how much you've healed until you look back and remember how broken you were.  I wanted to stand up and shout, yes yes yes. 

 

 

Healing looks different on everybody.  Maybe it just means you can smile.

 

Maybe healing is being able to breathe. 

 

Maybe it's just knowing it's okay to remember and not cry. 

 

I didn't dread Gabe's birthday this year;  it was just sweet, to look back and realize how much he changed my life.  I smiled remembering how difficult the transition from two to three children was for me.  I was exhausted. 

 

One of my favorite moments with Gabe was at one-thirty in the morning when he was about two months old.  He was awake, crying, and wanting to cuddle.  I was tired, sleep deprived, yet something just nudged me to savor him.  I took him downstairs, curled up in my favorite big chair and just drank him in.  I  kissed him, stroked his dark, dark hair, smelled his still-newborn scent.  I clearly remember looking out the window at the dark night and just thinking this is going to fly by.  I don't want to forget.  I want to sear this moment in my heart.  Of course I was thinking of first cars and college, not of tiny caskets or death certificates.  But God knew, and He gave me that precious moment with my little son. 

 

 

Healing is knowing that Heaven is real.

 

Healing is knowing here isn't the end.

 

Healing is knowing that the process isn't over.

 

Losing a child isn't something that is ever over.

 

Healing is embracing what the scars show. 

 

I'm thankful for my little son's life. 

 

I wouldn't wish losing a child on my worst enemy, yet I'm truly thankful for what I've learned on the grief road.

 

I'm so glad that three years ago little Gabriel James was born. 

 

Happy birthday, my sweet, sweet baby.  I love you so much.

 

{and just because it's his birthday. . . some of my very favorite pictures, in no particular order}

(be still)

Dark and cold and rainy evening and I am listening to The Fray's Be Still  and trying to formulate thoughts into words

Be still and know that I Am with you

Be still and know that I Am here



I wrote this awesome little quote on my chalkboard wall today:

Stop the glorification of busy.

 

-author unknown

 

It stares down at me as I rush by, this thought that busy isn't always good.

 

I am hiding in the busy, drowning in it, running away from all that I need to slow down and pray through. 

 

I say no to two separate events today, give way and say yes to the third.

 

I try to glorify the stillness, but in the stillness is grief and pain.

 

The stillness and maybe the rain bring thoughts and thoughts bring pain.

 

Being still means that I have a few q's for God, some things I don't understand, and I think being busy I can just ignore what I'm thinking and throw a few God is goods and thankful for graces (protestant Hail Marys) at the doubts and we'll be good to go.



When darkness comes upon you

And covers you with fear and shame

Be still and know that I Am with you

And I will say your name


The quietness always reveals the gaping hole, the void of our son.

Gabe is a shadow of my imagination these days, all the memories and joy and pain so distant.  Apparently two and a half years is a long time frame.  I can't remember things.  This drives me crazy and I can't even allow my mind to remember what it can't remember. 

But my children, they remember with startling clarity and once again I wonder if they're okay.

I sit on the front porch with Jacob and a few of his buddies.  They are crouched on their little haunches, little boy style, talking about nothing and everything. 

Jacob, matter-of fact: "My little brother died in my bedroom and I know where his bed was and I don't like to be there when I sleep."

I am stunned and panicky and the mama bear in me instantly has our house listed with a SOLD sign on it and I am far away from all this pain, wanting to protect this boy from memories, from death, from fear.

If terror falls upon your bed

And sleep no longer comes

Remember all the words I've said

Be still, be still and know.

I wait, wait to be calm, wait to be rational, and that night up in his room,  I sit on his bed and rub his little boy back, feel his bristly short hair that won't grow long the way he wants it to, pray for the words that I should say, pray to listen.

Hey, I heard you say you remember that Gabe died in here.  Can you talk to me about that? Cuz I remember too.

He rolls over. 

Yeah, I just know it, Mom.

I cringe.  Do you want to trade bedrooms? I would do anything, anything to take away a little pain from anyone here; these walls have seen too many tears.

Well. . . I don't know, I like having a big room, you know, with my stuff, and my desk. . . he trails off.  The materialism in him is winning over his memories. Unbelievable.  Maybe this isn't all as deep and crushing as it initially sounded.

I relax a little.  Well, we can always trade around bedrooms.  I don't want you to be scared.  Really.

He sits up a little, his big brown eyes serious.  Well, yes, I am scared because sometimes I do think there are rattlesnakes in here. 

I want to laugh and cry.  He just needs to relay facts, hear truth, be loved, be secure.  He needs to say that his brother died.  He needs to read too many westerns and be scared of rattlesnakes.  He is just a boy and he will be okay.

I think.


When you go through the valley

And shadow comes down from the hill

If morning never comes to be

Be still, be still, be still


My sister Elizabeth and I are sweating and fuming and vowing to never touch peel and stick linoleum squares ever again in a basement bathroom, snapping chalklines and using squares and still having problems and then Mom calls, with Cambria on the other end of the phone for me. 

She has long endless details about the bike ride Mom took her for and Grandma pushed Eli in the stroller and I waited for her at the corners

and then we went to see Gabe, Mom, I showed Grandma where to go cuz I know how to get there and I rode my bike and showed Grandma.  And we were there with Eli and I looked up and Grandma was crying not really loud, just a little.  And then I cried, too, Mom.

I left the linoleum squares.

And then Grandma prayed, Mom, and she asked me if I wanted to pray too and I said yes.  So we both prayed there. 

I bless my mom for loving my daughter and walking her through this moment.  I don't know what to say.  I feel far away even though I'm just across town and the phone between us amplifies the loss because I want to reach out an hug her little warm self and take the pain away.


And in the middle of my busy-running, in the middle of the pain-burying, our precious Eli turns one and I realize the enormous amount of healing and relief he has brought to our home.

In true over-busy style I buy him a cake from the Walmart deli case and we put a little blue candle in it and watch his little face in the glow of the flame;  I'm struck by the fact that I don't have a driving need to make his first birthday perfect, like I did for Gabe. 

Because he's here.  He doesn't care about the perfect cupcakes, and I don't either, because I can kiss his bald little head and pinch his solid little legs and chase him all over the house and out of messes, all day long. 

I thank God for him, this little Eli David constantly.  I try not to hold him too tight.  I teach him "no" and "obey" and Cambria and I roll with laughter when he learns to hokey-pokey.

I think of a paragraph in a book I never finished once I found that the grieving father's young son returns as a ghost;  (I don't need any additional weird thoughts in my head)

Mark sat back down on the stool, his heart beating too fast.  For the second time that day, he wondered how on earth he'd managed to become the person he was: a man who felt like weeping whenever someone he loved left the room.

You Came Back, by Christopher Coake, ch.2, pg.15 



If you forget the way to go

And lose where you came from

If no ones standing beside you

Be still and know I Am



Be still and know that I am God, He says to me.  All the answers are not here, but He is.

The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.”

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind.

After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.

After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.

And after the fire came a gentle whisper. {1 Kings 19:11-13}

He was there, in the stillness.


Be still and know that I Am with you

Be still and know I Am.